The Housemaid

by Sarah A. Denzil

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Book Club Picks

Synopsis

The latest dark and twisty thriller by the MILLION COPY bestselling author of SILENT CHILD.

Housemaid wanted.

Skills required: Discretion, and the willingness to go the extra mile.

It seems like the perfect job. Great wages, accommodation provided, and all located within the walls of Highwood Hall, a stunning stately home owned by the Howard family. Not many little girls dream of becoming a maid, but this is an opportunity for me to get back on my feet. And for me to revisit my past...

But I soon realise I've made a mistake. The strict housekeeper, Mrs Huxley, watches my every move, emerging from the shadows when least expected. Lord Howard's son, Alex, takes an interest in me, and as a former addict, I find myself drawn to him because I know he's bad for me. There's a general atmosphere of unease at Highwood Hall, from the narrow tunnels laced throughout the sprawling house, to the abandoned north wing, rumoured to be haunted. It's easy to imagine the secrets hidden within these walls, like the secrets I hold close.

On my first day, I receive a mysterious package. I open up the pretty gift box to find a miniature doll version of me trapped inside a dollhouse. In this scene I'm dead, lying in a pool of red paint at the bottom of the perfectly recreated staircase. Someone sent this threatening diorama to me, but who even knows I work at the hall? And what do they want?

I know only one truth: my perfect job is turning into my perfect nightmare.

The thriller READERS are talking about:

"A poignant, deliciously dark novel which kept me gripped." Vikki Patis, author of Girl, Lost, ★★★★★

"As the story unfolds and secrets unfurl, it leaves you gasping for breath!" Netgalley reviewer, ★★★★★

"An excellent mind-bending story tricking your thoughts in all directions!" Netgalley reviewer, ★★★★★

"One of the creepiest, craziest books I have read this year." Goodreads reviewer, ★★★★★

"Twists & turns aplenty with a killer of an ending!" - Goodreads reviewer, ★★★★★

"Amazing book. Truly a Denzil thriller, you never guess what's coming!" - Goodreads reviewer, ★★★★★

"This took so many turns my head is still spinning! The characters are so well developed I feel like I know each of them. Such a great read!" - Netgalley reviewer, ★★★★★

Release date: July 20, 2021

Print pages: 296

Sample

The Music Room

 

Ghost is another name for housemaid. An unseen entity that slips through each room, straightening, wiping, dusting, rummaging. The eye does not linger on the maid in the corridor. The heart does not feel for her. There was a time I convinced myself otherwise, but no matter what you are to your house—a confidante, an ally, a lover—a ghost is what you will transform into. A ghost is what I became.

I thought I was someone to him—to them even—but in the end, I was nothing.

I don’t dream anymore, but if I did, I would imagine myself back in the music room, sitting on the piano stool with him next to me. His long fingers caressing the white and black keys and the swell of the music filling up the large space inside that room. Emily, what would you like me to play? He would grin because he knew I always picked my favourite piece—the Debussy. He would perform it for me diligently. But what he didn’t know was that I loved the way he said my name more than any music he played for me. It made me feel noticed, appreciated even, and for a maid, that’s important.

When a man, a powerful, rich man, looks at you and says your name, well, let’s just say it can elicit an adrenaline rush that chases away common sense.

Inside the music room, I went to another place. He and I were from two different worlds, but in that room it didn’t matter. I forgot about everything I’d left behind when he started to play. Perhaps I forgot too many things. Perhaps I forgot myself.

The mistakes I made are my own, and I will never forgive myself for them and for becoming the very thing I’d tried so hard not to be: another ghost.

 

 

Chapter One

 

I was twenty-one years old, broke, homeless, and desperate for a job. Lost, both literally and metaphorically. I realised, once I hopped down from the bus in Paxby village, that I couldn’t afford a taxi to the house. There’d been an unexpected cost along the way. The bus company no longer sold their day saver, and I had to buy a full-price ticket. It left me with three pounds in my wallet and a debit card that belonged to an empty bank account.

Luckily, I’d arrived in Paxby over an hour early because of my own anxieties about being late. The maid job at Highwood Hall was one I’d coveted for a long time. Highwood Hall provided living accommodation for their maids, and I needed somewhere to live.

The decision was made for me. I had to walk to the house now that I couldn’t afford an alternative. So I set off at a steady pace, mindful of the warm weather. Not wanting to turn up to my interview soggy from perspiration.

The ramparts and turrets of Highwood Hall peeked out from above a canopy of sloping green. All I needed to do was walk towards those slate-grey walls. And as I crossed the road, my heart pitter-pattered. In truth, the promise of accommodation was part of the reason for my application. I had to admit that it thrilled me to think of working in that stately home, one of the largest estates in Yorkshire and possibly the last one of its size that hadn’t yet been opened to the public. The Howards had held on to their privacy, able to pay for the upkeep of the Hall through Lord Bertie’s successful finance company. At least, I’d read that he liked to be called Lord Bertie; his actual name was Reginald Peregrine Charles Howard.

It was late May, and peroxide sunrays exploded through the clouds. As I made my way out of the village, away from the limestone walls and identical rows of cottages, I rolled up my shirtsleeves and pulled my hair back into what I hoped was a tidy bun. Fortunately, I’d had the foresight to wear tennis shoes and carry a pair of—borrowed—smart pumps in my tote bag. Looking at the steep hill up to Highwood Hall, it was the right decision.

All in all, it took me around thirty minutes to reach the forest, walking slowly so as not to sweat too much. The sudden shade from the canopy above was a welcome respite from the sun, and I allowed myself a moment to drink some water and let my legs rest. I wondered whether any of the other candidates had walked up from the village. It was possible. This interview was for a low-paying job, and I couldn’t be the first interviewee without the means to drive myself there. I couldn’t be the only maid living day by day, sofa surfing through the contacts on my phone, queuing up at closing time in Tesco to get the best discounts on the food they were about to discard. No, there would be others like me, I felt sure of it. I stretched out my legs and kept going, sticking to the road that snaked its way up through the woods.

I decided I’d go walking in the woods if I got the job. Maybe I’d get up early, just before dawn, and walk them alone. But what drew me to this spot, I don’t know. There was no beauty here. I saw no grandeur, simply a wildness that I liked. I peeked through the trees at the thorns, weeds and long stretches of nettles. Every tree was twisted, branches malformed, the trunks growing at awkward angles, roots zigzagging down the sloping earth. Cool air spread over my skin. I unrolled my sleeves. I wrapped my arms around my body, hugging my ribs, and I quickened my step, thinking that perhaps I wouldn’t go walking in the woods after all, that I wouldn’t be brave enough.

Then the hall came into view. A set of wrought iron gates cut the building in half, the metal curving across the front facade of the house, and with each step, those curling bars of iron loomed taller above me. I brushed stray hairs out of my eyes and tucked the strands into my bun. I smoothed my wrinkled shirtsleeves and straightened the collar. Before I reached the gate, I ducked to the side of the road to change my shoes, checked in my compact mirror for smudged make-up, and hoped that no one would notice I’d walked a mile up a hill. Then I went back to the gate and pressed a buzzer that had definitely not been around when the house was built during the Tudor period.

A voice crackled through the speaker. Whose voice? I wondered. A security guard? A servant? When the agency organised the interview, they didn’t tell me how many members of staff the Howards employed, but I guessed there must be a team. I leaned closer to the speaker and relayed why I was there. I was ten minutes early, despite the walk, but the gate opened for me anyway, and when I stepped through, I saw what the wrought iron had blocked. I saw the stained-glass windows, the rambling magenta roses extending across the bricks, clumps of green leaves dangling over the arch of the great wooden doorway. The house, or rather estate, stretched down towards the forest, running adjacent with a manicured lawn, stone pots of bright flowers, hedgerows of tufty reeds and neat privet hedges. Where I had seen a wild nature in the woods, I saw it repeated here amongst the beauty of the hall. Yes, the hedges were trimmed and no moss dwelt within the cracks of the pathways, but I saw ivy strangling the roses, flaws running along the panes of glass, tall fern fronds leaning over the path and the light dusting of crumbling stone on the doorstep. I felt an immediate kinship with this house. I understood what it was like to be worn down. But unlike me, the house had help to rebuild itself. It had a team.

I stepped beneath arched stone and grasped the door knocker, an iron circle around a Tudor rose. I cleared my throat as I waited, worried that my first words would be a croak. Silence stretched for several long seconds. But when I lifted my hand to knock again, the door opened and the scent of old paper, wood fires, and pastry spilled out of the house. A woman stood on the threshold. She was wearing a simple burgundy dress with slightly puffed sleeves and buttons on the cuff. The neckline was high but not severe. From the square cut of her dress rose a slender neck and a chin lifted like a ballerina’s. The woman had high cheekbones that gave her face a skeletal structure, and from within her narrow eyes gleamed two black marbles. Her russet skin was slightly looser around the jaw, and a couple of small, wiry grey hairs poked out from her hairline. I put her age at mid to late forties. No hint of a smile came from her full lips.

“Come to the servants’ entrance around the east side of the house,” she said and then closed the door in my face.